


all safe and sound; i won't let the psychos around

by bluebirdsonourshoulders



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:18:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebirdsonourshoulders/pseuds/bluebirdsonourshoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not good at accepting thank you’s but Ian still thinks he deserves to hear them; deserves to know just how much of an anchor he is to him. Has been ever since their lives changed so drastically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all safe and sound; i won't let the psychos around

**Author's Note:**

> this is set vaguely into the future, like a couple of years i suppose, because writing directly post 4x12 was too painful.
> 
> this is my first shameless fic; i hope i didn't royally fail and got the characters completely wrong. thank you for reading!

It’s always been a push and pull. 

It’s never been easy. Ian never expected it to. Mickey did; expected it to be a casual fuck and nothing else. Ian never really was that naive, though Mickey would gladly tell him otherwise.

He’d never say it out loud, ‘cause even though he lives for teasing Mickey with the gayest things he can think of, even this sounds too sappy, but Ian always sort of knew they’d be like this. He knew it would never be easy, but he’d never really wanted it to be. And anyway, he knew they’d always sort of fall back into one another; always being pulled towards the other.

Even after several years, it’s still a push and pull; a step forward and then one back again.

Neither one of them has ran so far though and they both figure that should count for something as well.

Ian’s sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through one of Mandy’s community college textbooks when Mickey storms in, angrily sliding a plastic bag over to the redhead. Ian just raises an eyebrow, but Mickey doesn’t speak. Just glares at him and nods at the bag.

Ian nods back and goes for the bag, but Mickey speaks up before he can open it anyway, “Your meds.”

He smiles at his boyfriend, “Oh. Thank you for picking them up.”

“Fucking welcome, asshole.” Mickey mutters and walks out of the kitchen, still as angry as he was when he walked in. And, you know, it’s not as if they never fight. They probably fight as much as they fuck, but this? This, Ian’s not really used to.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He asks, following Mickey into the living room of their shitty apartment. It’s small and not at all in the best state possible, but it’s the best they can afford and it feels like it’s theirs and that’s sort of all that matters.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me, huh?”

“Did I do something to piss you off? I haven’t even seen you today, Mick.” Ian reasons, but it only makes Mickey seethe more.

“No one’s seen you today apparently.” He huffs and then it clicks. Ian’s pretty sure he knows what this is about.

He tilts his head a little, tries not to smile because he knows that would only make it worse. “Are you talking about my therapy?”

“You’re supposed to fucking go to therapy, Ian! You’re supposed to take your fucking meds and go to fucking therapy.” He almost yells, throwing one hand in the air while he balls the other one into a fist at his side.

“I do that! You know I do!”

“You missed therapy today!”

Ian rolls his eyes, “I _rescheduled_. I’m going tomorrow.” He explains, but Mickey is still glaring at him from across the room. “How did you even know?”

“Not the point.” He snaps. “Why didn’t you go?”

“Had to go into work. We’re taking like five different jobs between the two of us, Mick, and it’s still not enough, I couldn’t turn down the money.”

Mickey’s face softens, just a little, and he lets himself sigh. He hates that it’s all this hard on them; hates that they both work their asses off and it’s still barely enough for food, rent and meds. He’s been this close to just rob a fucking apothecary a dozen hundred times, but Ian would murder him himself if he got into any trouble just because he was trying to help him. It seems like more than enough reason to get into trouble if you ask Mickey, but the redhead strongly disagrees.

He runs a hand over his face, “You can’t just cancel therapy, Ian. You need regularity, you know that.”

“I didn’t just cancel, okay? I’m going tomorrow.” Ian repeats.

“You better be. You know what happens when you don’t do this shit. Your mom –“

“I’m not my mom.” Ian’s quick to argue, because though it’s so natural for everyone to draw the parallels with his mom, he hates it. “I’m _not_ my fucking mother, okay?” He practically shouts; hating that Mickey would even bring this up.

“Yeah?” Mickey asks, completely unfazed. “Start acting like it.”

He disappears into the bathroom and fuck it, Ian’s not gonna run after him. He makes a turn for the front door and slams it behind him.

.

.

.

Three hours later, Mickey is sitting on their bed, going through one cigarette after the other. Ian will probably complain later that the room is filled with smoke, but well. He never understood why it bothered him anyway, the kid practically grew up in cigarette smoke.

He’s come to realize that he’s probably exaggerated a little earlier, but really, who can blame him for worrying about the dickhead? It took long enough for the both of them to realize that they needed real help with this; that simply taking care of him at home wasn’t going to do the trick, he’s not willing to let anyone or anything jeopardize what they’ve built together.

And fuck, when did he start thinking like this? He swears the kid is fucking with everything he ever thought he was, or would be.

Another ten minutes later, he hears the door slam again and though he’s not going to admit it, the constricting feeling in his chest melts away slightly, glad that Ian’s back home. He’s just lit another cigarette when the door to their room creaks open, revealing red hair and two beers in Ian’s hand.

“Peace offer.” Ian shrugs and settles next to Mickey on the bed.

The brunet raises his eyebrows, “Did you seriously get out just to get two beers?” He mutters, receiving an eye roll in response. They don’t keep alcohol in their apartment, it being bad for Ian and Mickey trying to be solidary. “You know you shouldn’t drink.”

Ian sighs, swiping the cigarette from Mickey’s fingers and taking a drag. “Stop telling me what to do. Besides, they’re both for you, man. Like I said, peace offer.”

“Whatever, Gallagher.” He simply says, snatching the bottles from his hand.

It’s quiet for a while, the cigarette going back and forth, their fingers touching and their shoulders bumping. Ian’s studying the other man’s face and Mickey’s trying to ignore him; as per usual when Ian would get it into his head to stare at him like that. He had stormed out earlier, slamming the door behind him and leaving Mickey and all his accusations and parallels of Monica. After an hour and a half of walking through the city and then another hour and a half of ranting to Lip though, he came to the conclusion that Mickey was just being worried and he might’ve overreacted in walking out like that.

“I’m sorry for making it this hard on you.” He says after a while.

Mickey turns towards him, his eyebrows scrunched, “The fuck you talking about?”

“The meds, the therapy, the no alcohol in the apartment, then the meds not working like they should, all the fucking jobs. You know, all the shit I’m dumping on you.” He elaborates, but Mickey just rolls his eyes and takes another drag from the cigarette.

“Shut up, why would you apologize for that? You’re not _dumping_ anything on me. If I didn’t want to deal with this, I would’ve been out the fucking door a long time ago.” He says and Ian smiles involuntarily, that dopey smile that he knows Mickey would flip him off for if he was looking at him right now.

He places a hand on the back of Mickey’s neck, his fingers curling in his hair, and makes Mickey look up at him, “I’m really not ditching on therapy. I’m not taking any of this for granted, I’m not just giving up.”

The older man lets out a small sigh, “I know. I wouldn’t let you do so anyway, shithead.”

Ian chuckles, “I noticed. Thank you for being worried.” He says softly, presses his lips to Mickey’s before he can figure out a way to dismiss his thank you.

He’s not good at accepting thank you’s but Ian still thinks he deserves to hear them; deserves to know just how much of an anchor he is to him. Has been ever since their lives changed so drastically.

Mickey just nods and kisses back, doesn’t say anything, but after all these years, Ian doesn’t really need the words anymore.


End file.
